


Sunrise

by lurkinglurkerwholurks



Series: Safe House [2]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU
Genre: Alternate POV, Alternate Point of View, Big Brother Jason Todd, Damian Wayne is Robin, Damian Wayne is still a kid, Gen, Jason Todd is Red Hood, Lazarus Pit, Post-resurrection for both Jason and Damian, Protective Jason Todd, Thunderstorms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-11
Updated: 2019-05-11
Packaged: 2020-03-01 01:33:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18790321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lurkinglurkerwholurks/pseuds/lurkinglurkerwholurks
Summary: Storms had been worse for him since Bruce had dragged him back to the Magda Valley. (Everything had been worse for him since returning to the Magda Valley.) Jason could have sworn he’d never get the smell out of his nose, that sharp, unearthly, crackling odor that gummed up the back of his throat and overturned his stomach.When the thunder began to grumble in the distance, he had retreated to his closest safe house to hide out for the night. He had tried to evade his demons, only to find a little demon shivering in his entryway.





	Sunrise

**Author's Note:**

> In celebration of my one-year fic-writing anniversary, I allowed followers on Tumblr to request an off-page fic snippet—a different POV of one of the scenes, a peek at what happened after, etc., of any of my finished fics.
> 
> This is one of those.
> 
> You can read this without reading Safe House first, but I wouldn't recommend it, as there are a lot of callbacks.

Jason remembered returning to Gotham the way one remembered suffering through a fever. It was a wash of muddied, muddled images, an anxious blur of memories with no defining features except where the very strongest impressions blazed through. He remembered the rage. He remembered the plan. And he remembered the feeling of invincibility, of power.

Man feared only death, and even that hadn’t been able to keep him down, so what was there left to fear?

It wasn’t true, of course. Jason had feared plenty back then, even when ablaze with everything else. Fear had snapped at his heels like hellhounds, chasing him into the dark. Some of it he had ignored (some of it he was still ignoring), but some he’d turned and snarled at, baying directly into the gaping maw of his own terrors. He remembered that, too.

That had been a long time ago, though. Or long enough, anyways. Long enough for Jason to sort through the rubble of his life and start uprighting the furniture and clearing away the debris. He was— _trying_  to be—better to himself now. There was so much he couldn’t fix, so much damage he couldn’t erase, but he could make the small changes.

He brought seed packets to the Manor and helped Alfred plant them in rich, loamy soil. When not patrolling the streets, he wrapped himself in soft, tagless fabrics that soothed his skin and blanketed his frozen limbs in warmth. He filled his safe houses with small comforts—blankets, good food, his favorite tea, books, crossword puzzles, and soft rugs. He stayed inside on the nights when the wind howled and the sky crackled and the air filled with the smell of despair.

Storms still unsettled him, even after days and months, weeks and years away from the Pit. Jason had learned to keep an eye on the horizon, to watch for dark clouds and feel for the heavy weight of moisture in the air. Gotham didn’t always cooperate—the wildness of a storm could send the city scurrying indoors or just as easily excite the mania of the rogues, like a full moon over a werewolf’s den—but when he could, he knew to pull himself off the streets and hunker down.

Storms had been worse for him since Bruce had dragged him back to the Magda Valley. (Everything had been worse for him since returning to the Magda Valley.) Jason could have sworn he’d never get the smell out of his nose, that sharp, unearthly, crackling odor that gummed up the back of his throat and overturned his stomach.

When the thunder began to grumble in the distance, he had retreated to his closest safe house to hide out for the night. He had tried to evade his demons, only to find a little demon shivering in his entryway.

Damian al Ghul Wayne was... something. Jason didn’t know him well. Dick was protective, the kid was a brat, and Jason hadn’t been interested initially in being anywhere near the spawn of Ra’s al Ghul. He also couldn’t really fault Dickie for going all mama bear. Damian had a mouth, one he didn’t bother to muzzle even around Jason, and early on, Jason hadn’t been known for his self-control. He liked to think he wouldn’t have really hurt the kid, though. Just a light stabbing or two.

He knew other things about the demon brat, however. He’d seen the kid in a fight—dangerous, focused, one eye always on Batman and Nightwing to gauge their approval. He’d heard stories of Damian bringing home fledgling birds and wounded frogs, exhausted butterflies and malnourished kittens. He knew Damian adored Alfred, in his own prickly way, and that the elderly butler had taken Damian into the garden and given him his own patch of soil to till.

He knew Bruce loved the kid. Had gone to pieces when he died. Had moved heaven and earth to get him back.

So maybe Jason had been a little jealous.

Maybe it had been more than the PTSD keeping him away.

He still should have checked up on him.

It was the guilt of it keeping him awake now.

_I thought I was broken._

How long? How long had that child thought he was broken, worried he’d come back _wrong_?

“You’re a crap sandwich, Jason Todd,” Jason muttered in his bed. “An absolute turd burger.”

He hadn’t even thought to check. Damian, to Jason’s disbelief and envy, had seemed to come back fine. Better than fine, even. The kid had returned with temporary superpowers and the welcome of the entire family, the little prince ushered back into the court.

Jason rolled over and punched his pillow, mashing it into a lump that would hopefully bring him some comfort.

He’d been prepared for an intruder when the shift in the air pressure had interrupted his reading. He hadn’t been prepared to find a drenched, shivering little bird huddled on his doormat. To feel the uncomfortable twist in his chest when he noticed the flinching at every clap of thunder or the way the boy buried his nose deep in the aroma of the tea to block out the ozone. Hadn’t been prepared to... well, to sit and to talk. Almost like brothers.

_I didn’t know you read._

Jason was smart. He _knew_  he was smart. He was cunning and he was clever and he was nigh on diabolical, and above all, he was _smart_. He didn’t need Bruce or Dick or any of them to admit it to know it was true. But it still stung, like a sunburn deep in his chest, to know they thought he was stupid, street scum, a thick-necked thug. Damian hadn’t been trying to be snotty. He’d spoken the truth in his surprise, and that innocence had knocked the wind out of Jason.

 _No one talks about you_.

They didn’t talk about him. Didn’t think about him, except maybe with disappointment. If they did, maybe they would’ve asked about how he came back. Once. Just once, someone should have asked. Maybe then they would’ve been better prepared for the kid.

“Soft,” Jason grumbled.

He’d gone soft, like an idiot. And unlike his bed tonight, it seemed.

With another frustrated growl, Jason rolled out of bed and onto his feet. Water. He'd get a glass of water.

He padded out into the kitchen on socked feet, silent on the tile. It was a space he could navigate blind and was nearly so with the blinds pulled to block out the streetlights. Damian was a dark blob on the couch, still and oblivious.

Jason filled a glass with water from the tap and drained it slowly. When the glass was empty and his thirst quenched, he began the shuffle back to his room, but detoured by the couch. With his shins nearly touching the cushion, he could see the kid, stomach down on the couch with the collar of his shirt pulled up over his nose. He was loose-limbed, one arm flopped over the side of the couch, and it was the first time Jason had seen him not on the verge of vibrating with tension.

He looked like a kid. Like a ten-year-old boy with gawky limbs and cowlick hair and baby fat still clinging to his face and fingers. A faint scowl creased the skin between Damian’s brows, affixed even in sleep, but otherwise his face was placid and still. He looked, just for the moment, like a kid who would play soccer or ride a bike or shoot milk out his nose. Not like a kid who had a massive, puckering scar across his chest and a mind full of nightmares.

Jason sighed in the dark and bent. Damian’s dangling arm was lifted and tucked beneath the blanket, then the lulling guitar music from the speakers dimmed to almost subconscious.

_If you get caught out again, let me know._

The offer had surprised Damian, the emotion rippling through his frame, stiffening muscles recently loosened by the revelation that his fears had a source. It had surprised Jason, too. He hadn’t meant to make it. But he’d been looking down at this boy, this kid who looked tinier than Jason had ever seen him in his borrowed Han Solo shirt and rolled sweatpants, and thought about him getting caught in the rain. Alone. Afraid. With all of death and the grave clawing up his mind.

Jason slunk to the bathroom and pulled out a tiny container of peppermint oil, which he left by the kid’s phone. It would be up to Damian to supply the rest of his belt, just like it would be up to him to reach out if he needed it. Jason wasn’t sure if he would. Wasn’t sure if the al Gul brainwashing would let him ask for help, or if the Wayne paranoia would let him ask _Jason_ , but he hoped he would. He hoped he wouldn’t need to at all. But if he did, Jason would answer.

When Jason woke the next morning, the couch was empty. The blankets sat carefully folded on one arm, topped by the t-shirt and sweatpants. The peppermint oil was gone. In its place was a sticky note from Jason’s study table placed atop his copy of _Bulfinch_. Damian had borrowed a pen and sketched out a bird mid-flight, its tail feathers drooping gracefully like the branches of a will tree and its powerful wings ablaze. A phoenix, battle-ready and resplendent. 

Jason studied the drawing, taking in both the talent and the unspoken acknowledgement. The window shades had been raised, and the pink and gold light of morning warmed the little safe house and lent depth to the fiery creature.

“Brat,” he muttered, but tucked the drawing carefully into his pocket.


End file.
